


Rapid

by Roselightfairy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/F, Gen, Legolas is a nightmare to supervise, Near Death Experiences, Protective Siblings, Sibling Love, more like could-have-been-fatal experiences, no one is in real danger, river rafting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 02:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Growing up in Mirkwood is not all spiders and shadows - there is time now and then for a pleasant afternoon with family.  And if a bit of adventure is involved, so much the better, as far as Legolas is concerned.His sister, on the other hand, may not remember this day as fondly.





	Rapid

**Author's Note:**

> An excerpt from a longer WIP, one that seems to be morphing into something less and less manageable the more I write, about the lives of Legolas's made-up sister and her made-up wife. This little excerpt doesn't need too much context, so I thought I would post it here in the hopes of getting a little more inspiration to work on the big thing.
> 
> If you haven't read my other stories, these characters won't mean much to you, and I understand that reading a mostly-OC-driven story is not everyone's cup of tea - but if you enjoy this, I'd love to hear it! Thank you for reading and giving me a chance!

Laerwen breathes deeply, feeling her lungs open up to the fresh air on the river, rolling her shoulders into the smooth familiarity of rowing and the pleasure of parting the water beneath her oars, the occasional ray of sun glancing through the thickly-laced tree branches and off the water-drops that her strokes flick into the air. This is one of the places that still feels untouched by the creeping gloom settling over her forest, and with Siril and Legolas chattering behind her, it feels as close to perfect as a day can become.

“Oh!” exclaims Legolas, as the rushing of the river grows louder; Laerwen does not need to turn to envision his wide eyes, the pointing finger, even with nothing to see. “Is that the sound of the rapids you spoke of?”

“Yes,” says Siril, and Laerwen corrects with a precise stroke the shift in balance that must be Legolas leaning forward for a better look. She could join the conversation; she has navigated these rapids often enough over the years that she could do it in reverie, but she likes the sound of the water cascading between smooth-worn rocks, almost as much as she likes the sound of Siril’s voice as she narrates. “You see the rocks rising out of the river? The riverbed is higher here, and the water creates currents and eddies to travel around the obstacles in its way. Laerwen will steer us through them; do not worry.”

“I am not worried!” Legolas sounds indignant; again their craft shifts as he wriggles to the side to lean over the edge, and Laerwen corrects again for the change. At fifteen years old Legolas is wont to clamber over things in service of his curiosity about the world, and Laerwen knows he has more sense than to tip them over – but still. “Will we go faster?”

Siril laughs. “Can you not feel that we are already?”

Laerwen smiles, guiding them between the first set of rocks, her stomach swooping as their craft rises and falls with the water; Legolas squeals with delight as the spray washes over them. Laerwen has done this before without causing a drenching – the river is the swiftest way out of the kingdom, on days that she has gone so far, and a dripping diplomat would hardly be an inspiration of confidence to a man of Laketown or a dwarf of Erebor – but Legolas’s laughter catches hold of something inside her, and she is powerless to deny him anything. There is a safer way between the next few rocks, but Laerwen remembers being rowed down this river when she was a child, remembers begging her grandfather to be less cautious, to make it more exciting.

On a whim, she steers right instead of left, choosing the route she takes when seeking more of a thrill.

“Do you row this every day, Laerwen?” asks Legolas behind her. “Is that how you know the river so well?”

“Not every day.” Ah, now they are a bit too close; Laerwen rows hard on the right to guide them just around the large rock. “But I have rowed it regularly for more years than you” – she turns to smile at him – “can even imagine. The river runs through the whole kingdom, so it is the swiftest way to” –

It happens in an instant.

She should have remembered it; she would have seen it, were she paying attention, but she is turning back from Legolas, not alert enough to steer them to safety. They bump down over the second rock, the one to the side of the first that hides and surprises the unwary – or those who, like Laerwen, have forgotten. The front left of the boat rises out of the water and then thuds back down, sending up a wave that washes over onto the craft just as the back performs the same motion, but even faster. Laerwen braces herself against the dousing, and she knows Siril can keep her balance – but the jolt was too sudden and none of them were prepared; Siril must not have caught hold of Legolas in time, for she lets out a cry and the boat’s balance shifts as his weight disappears, washed over the edge.

Laerwen strokes _hard_ left, muscling against the river, oars scraping against rocks, already turning before Siril shouts her name. She cannot spare a glance around for him, so she must trust Siril to find him even as horrible visions flash before her eyes – Legolas’s head trapped underwater beneath a branch, or dashed open on a rock, pink spilling into the water as his limp body is tossed back and forth; Legolas carried helplessly away down the river, limbs flailing as he struggles to stay afloat – her brother is a strong swimmer already, but the river is merciless to those tossed in at the wrong time, in the wrong place –

“Stay there!” shouts Siril, and Laerwen’s head whips around toward her voice, her chest seizing as she takes in the most beautiful possible sight: Legolas, half-upright, clinging to the large rock that knocked them off course as the river rushes around him, black hair dripping all over his face, but aware enough to wipe water from his eyes.

“What?” he calls back, and Laerwen’s heart threatens to break at the sound of his voice, but she holds it ruthlessly in check, her muscles straining as she rows against the river. _You will not have him. Not today. Not ever._

“Hold on!” Siril cries. “We will come to you!”

This is not a good place to row upstream, but Laerwen does not care; she strokes against the current again and again, forcing them up the river and back behind where Legolas clings, guiding them into a turn; she lets the current carry them forward again, but keeps a controlled backwards paddle so that they will not leave her brother behind again. Closer – and closer – his head is just to their left, and Laerwen digs in _hard_ , backwards on the right side, holding them nearly still, allowing the river _just_ enough slack so that they inch closer – Legolas’s free hand reaches out – Laerwen’s back is slick with sweat – and Siril leans over and plucks Legolas free. A wall of water roars free with him, grasping for its stolen prize – but it slaps harmlessly into the boat and Legolas tumbles sideways over Siril’s thighs.

Safe.

Her arms shaking, Laerwen stops fighting and lets the river carry them on.

She takes the safest path she knows through the rest of the rapids, not daring to take her attention away from the river again, though she knows Siril will have a firm hold on Legolas now. But as soon as they have made it through the rapids, Laerwen pulls them over to the first bank she can find and leaps off to tug the boat ashore. Once she has secured the boat, she scrambles back in and falls to her knees before Legolas. “Are you all right?” she demands, eyes raking over Legolas in search of injuries. “Did you hit your head?”

But Legolas’s eyes are bright, his face exhilarated. “No, only my back,” he says, as though it is immaterial. “That was wonderful! Did you do it on purpose?”

“Absolutely not.” Laerwen whirls Legolas around, pushes his soaking tunic up over his shoulders. “Where? Here?”

“No, higher – on the left by my shoulder. I am fine, Laerwen.” He squirms in her grip. “I was only struck once, and then I caught hold of the rock, and I knew there would be more if I let go, so I thought it best to hold on” –

“You did right,” Siril says, and from the way she looks at Laerwen over Legolas’s head, Laerwen knows the soothing tone in her voice is for her. “We turned and came for you as soon as we could.”

“Yes, and it was thrilling!” chirps Legolas. “I could hardly hold on to the rock, the water was so strong, but you brought the whole boat around!” His eyes shine with admiration, and Siril gives Laerwen a fond, teasing grin. “Are you tired?”

Laerwen shrugs. “Perhaps a bit.” In truth, she has never felt so alert or awake in her life; her arms and legs tremble, but energy still thrills through her, and she feels that she could fight a thousand rivers if needed to keep Legolas’s eyes so alive and sparkling.

“Well . . .” His grin turns mischievous. “Can we do it again?”

 _Never_ , Laerwen manages not to shout. It is all she can do to force her lips into a weak smile when Siril laughs and says, “Indeed not! You may have found that a delightful adventure, but I think your sister’s poor heart cannot take another of the like!”

Legolas laughs with Siril, and nudges his head into Laerwen’s arm. “Do not be silly,” he says, with a confidence in his voice that makes Laerwen’s legs go weak. “Laerwen is not afraid of anything.”

Somehow, Laerwen does not cut their journey short. Somehow she steers them carefully – no more risks – to the pleasant bank where they planned to stop, dutifully eats the lunch that Siril packed for them. Somehow she retains her poise and manages to smile and _ah_ as Legolas rattles off his babbled narrative – “and then I know not whether I was upside down or upright; the water sucked at me, and I felt something strike my shoulder and knew I must catch it to stay still and get my bearings” – and congratulate him on his quick thinking rather than force him to sit still while she rubs salve over his bruises. And she only squeezes Siril’s hand a bit too tightly as they walk back home, Legolas leading the way and chattering excitedly about his adventure.

She was not taught to fear the river as a child, and neither will he be – and there will be time yet to teach him to respect its strength. If he is to remember this as an exhilarating adventure, she will not spoil the memory for him.

But that night, after they have at last adjourned to their chambers and Legolas to his own, she slumps into her bed as though she will never have the strength to rise again, and Siril holds her when she finally dissolves into tears.


End file.
